


Se Battre

by loumieredarling



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, AU, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 19:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loumieredarling/pseuds/loumieredarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You cannot tell me you do not see the injustice in our political system, Éponine?"<br/>“Well of course I’ve noticed it, Monsieur, but I don’t see what can be done about it! Life is shit, and then you die. That’s how it’s always been, and that’s how it always will be. At least this way I will not have to endure it much longer."</p><p>The Hunger Games AU, 3-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by this wonderful fanvideo http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90DAOx1KTqg

When her name is called out, she can hardly feel surprised. Her name was in the bowl forty-two times, having received tesserae for each member of her family every year since she turned twelve. It was a total scam, of course. Her three brothers had been kicked to the streets by her parents long ago, and the extra rations of oil and grain were sold at extortionate rates by her father, to those who desperately could not afford it. They had done the same to her sister Azelma, forcing her to apply for the maximum number of tesserae, too. This year was her brother Gavroche's first year to be entered into the reaping. He does not even live with them, and yet his name sits on seven slips of paper, each of them spelling out death.

Numbly, she walks to the stage set up before the town hall, conscious of her matted hair, her torn and grubby dress projected for the whole of Panem to see. She keeps her eyes lowered, gaze dragging over the ornamental (and impractical) shoes of Effie Trinket, the pristine white boots of the Peacekeepers.

"Hurry up then dear, come along."

There's a low pitched buzzing in the back of her head, and the shuffling and muttering of the crowds stood before the stage seems distant and muffled. Her heart pounds in her chests. She stands to Effie's side and looks up, eyes searching. They fall on her parents, stood to the side, hair styled in horrible imitations of the Capitol's fashions, and expressions blank. A stone settles in her stomach.

"And now for the male tribute!" A garishly manicured hand rifles through the bowl, catching a slip of paper between two talons. "Marc Enjolras!"

She knew that name. She'd heard it called across the grounds in front of the school, seen Marius walking with a tall, blonde haired boy with a stern expression. The expression is still fixed on the boys face as he ascends the steps, hands loose at his sides and chin raised.  _He doesn't look scared_ , Éponine thinks to herself,  _he looks… defiant? Here is not the place for such emotion, Monsieur._

* * *

What does surprise her is that her parents come to say goodbye. The surprise doesn't last long. Her mother remains silent while her father turns on her, a sloping grin winding its way up his face.

"'Ponine. My dear 'Ponine. At last, you might bring some honour to this family."

"Or die trying?" she bites back. Her father smiles grimly at her. "I wouldn't be in this position if it weren't for you! Why couldn't you make some kind of honest living like everyone else, instead of selling your children's lives? You don't even look after Gavroche and yet you're perfectly happy to risk his life for your ridiculous scams!"

 _Crack._ Her head snaps to the side with the force of the blow, but she merely spits in his face in response. "You know what, I hope I die out there,  _Papa._  It would be better than seeing you get yours hands on the winnings!"

"You little brat! I'll make you wish you were never born!" He raises his hand again, and it takes all her willpower not to flinch at the action.

"Too late for that, I already do! Now get out! I hope to God I never see your face again."

Her father visibly shakes before her, his face red, but her mother grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the room. As soon as the door shuts, she sits down heavily on one of the blue velvet chairs, the sound of her pulse rushing in her ears. After a couple of moments, the door creaks open once more and she looks up sharply. Her little brother stands in the doorway, and behind her she can see the russet coloured hair of her sister. She motions to them to come inside. Azelma hangs back, looking uncertain, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Gavroche runs straight to her, throwing his arms around her waist.

"Hush there," she murmurs, stroking his hair. "You're meant to be the tough one, remember?" He pulls his head out of her lap and looks up at her, eyes wide and old beyond their years.

"You can do it, 'Ponine. I know you can. You've looked after me and the boys, you can look after yourself."

She smiles softly at him, knowing there are no words she could say to make it better, make it different. What chance did a skinny little street girl have against trained career tributes who've been eating three square meals each day of their lives? She looks up, catching Azelma's worried gaze.

"You look after them, you hear me, 'Zelma?" Her sister nods, a short jerk of the head. "And don't you take no shit from Papa. And stay away from 'Parnasse and the rest of that lot. They'll do you no good. I mean it. I'll know, and I'll come back to haunt you," she grins, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Oh, 'Ponine!" Azelma cries, eyes glistening.

"Come on, off with you both," she whispers, sniffing slightly. She pulls Gavroche to her once more, before shoving him gently towards the door. "You'd better be rooting for me."

Her eyes meet Azelma's, and she prays to whoevers listening that her sister heeds her words. " _Adieu, ma sœur, mon frère. Je vous aime."_

* * *

Her time is almost up when the door opens once more, and her heart leaps into her throat.

" _Monsieur Marius,_ " she breathes, beaming.

"Oh God, 'Ponine!" he cries, rushing in and sweeping her into his arms.

"Don't you fret, Monsieur. It is better it is me than you. I was going nowhere good anyway."

Marius pulls back, his eyes red. "Don't say that."

"It is true though,  _non?_ Though perhaps I would not like to go so violently," she says with a grimace.

"How can you talk like that?"

She shrugs. "I accepted my fate a long time ago, Monsieur."

He looks at her, concern etched into his face, then his gaze flickers to the window. "It's raining."

From somewhere, a laugh emerges from her lips. "A little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now, Monsieur." There is a knock on the door.

"I should go," Marius sighs forlornly. "Adieu. Je t'aime, 'Ponine." He leans forward and pressed his lips to her forehead while she grasps his sleeve. She can't quite help her smile as the door shuts behind him "Adieu, Monsier. Je t'aime, aussi."

* * *

The car ride to the train is silent and tense. The boy, Enjolras, sits stiffly, his stern gaze still in place, and Éponine starts to wonder if he is made of marble. He seems more statue than man.

She tries not to gawk at the interior of the train, the polished steel surfaces and the large TV screens. She notices that Enjolras remains impassive.  _Well of course,_ she thinks snidely to herself,  _this can't be much different to that palace he calls a home, our little bourgeois boy._

He disappears swiftly into his compartment, and she doesn't see him until dinner.

* * *

When she enters the dining cart, she sees Enjolras, glaring darkly at Grantaire, their mentor, who is leant back in his chair, roaring with laughter. Alec Grantaire is the only surviving victor of the Games from District 12. He is also the worst possible mentor Éponine could imagine. From the doorway of the carriage she swears she can smell the stench of alcohol that clings to his breath and clothing, and he looks as if he has long forgotten the use of a shower or razor. She imagines she does not look much better, but at least there is reason behind her appearance. She can't imagine what excuse he has, considering the victor's mansion he currently occupies, with everything he could ever want at his disposal.

Neither of them haved noticed her entrance, and she watches as Grantaire proceeded to recover his composure.

"You're a fool, boy," he cackled, slamming his hand down on the table in mirth. "You'll never manage it."

"I can try, can I not?"

"Try what?" Éponine interjects, stepping further into the room. Both men looked sharply in her direction.

"Your friend here is getting a little over ambitious, that is all," Grantaire explained vaguely.

"We're not friends. We've never spoken before."

"Well that's good. A word of advice: keep it that way."

Éponine nodded, her eyes fixed on Enjolras, who did similarly.

Despite everything, dinner was magnificent, and Éponine returned to her compartment feeling nauseous from the richness of the food, and smiling softly at the way Effie's had chastised her for eating with her hands.

* * *

She swears she has never felt anything quite as heavenly as the hot water of the shower pouring over her bruised and grubby skin, and she steps out with her hair feeling softer than it has in years, and she begins to ache just a little less. Looking in the mirror, she wonders if, had she a little more meat on her bones, she could be considered pretty.

As she crawls between the lusciously soft sheets of the large bed and shuts her eyes, she thinks of Marius and a small smile graces her lips. " _Je t'aime, 'Ponine."_

* * *

She can't help but stare as they pull into the Capitol, the tall buildings scraping the clouds, and shining in the bright morning sun. People with brightly coloured hair and clothing turn and look as the train rushes by, excited smiles plastered onto their faces.

Enjolras turns away, his face grim and his hands clenched at his sides.

* * *

Her stylist grimaces at her bruises, the number of ribs on show, but makes no comment as he waxes, cleans, polishes.

* * *

As they step down from their chariot, Éponine rounds on Enjolras. "What was that for?"

"What?" He has the decency to look affronted.

She waves her hand in front of his face, the one that not two minutes previously he had held, raised before a cheering crowd.

"I was merely playing to the audience. Don't read into it too much."

"I wasn't."  _What would Marius think?_

"Good." He turns to walk away, the remainders of the fake flames flickering across his shoulders.

"Let's just make one thing clear, Monsieur Enjolras," she calls after him. He pauses. "I do not care what connection you have to Monsieur Marius. We are not friends, nor will we ever be, and I am not to be used for your little ploys to win over the audience with your pretty boy looks and your bourgeois airs."

Enjolras turns slowly, his shoulders set. "And let me make this quite clear, Mademoiselle Thénardier. I apologise for any offence I may have caused, but you do not know me, nor should you assume to know me. Perhaps sometimes you should keep your thoughts to yourself; it'd do us all a favour."

"And perhaps you should keep your hands to yourself!" she seethed.

* * *

Training feels like a disaster. None of the survival skills taught to her back in District 12 are of any use here, and she knows that hanging uselessly by the side of the gym is not helping her to not come across as prey. She can pickpocket, and make herself disappear in the blink of an eye, but these are hard skills to demonstrate to the judges. She is malnourished and weak, and each time she sees Enjolras pick up a sword and proceed to fence quite adequately with one of the careers she feels acid drop into her stomach.

* * *

She is unsurprised when the screen flashes a large red four at her. Enjolras follows with a nine.

* * *

Her dress is deep blue and feels like water, clinging to her thin frame. It seems appropriate, or more so than fire, at least. Enjolras appears silently as her side, in a scarlet jacket adorned with brass buttons. It is perfect in its severity and nobility.

* * *

On stage she is no longer Éponine Thénardier. She is Éponine Jondrette, and she is beautiful and rich and charming, with a smile that makes men fall to their knees. As her interview finishes up, she realises she has been exactly who her father would want her to appear as, and she feels sick.

* * *

" _What the hell was that about?!"_ she screeches, her hands shoving against his chest to no effect. "You  _love_ me? You can barely have looked at me in the past and now you're telling the whole of Panem that you love me? The idea is stupid! Why would anyone believe that? A skinny little street rat and pretty bourgeois boy like yourself? What games are you playing at, Monsieur Enjolras?"  _Oh Marius, my Marius. Forgive me, he means not what he said. I am only yours._

He looks at her, unwavering, eyes cold and hard. "Look around you, Éponine. There is so much more going on here than just your self-pity and whatever you have with Pontmercy. It would do you good to take note of it."

He strides off before she can think of a response.

* * *

He finds her on the roof, her knees drawn up to her chest as she surveys the city lights, glittering like hot coals beneath her. She doesn't look up as he approaches.

"What did you mean," she whispers, and her voice is almost lost in the breeze that murmurs over the rooftops, "when you said there's so much more going on?"

He sits opposite her, and even this action is careful, practiced. "You mean you haven't noticed? You're the one it affects most, Mademoiselle."

"I notice little besides the changing of the seasons and the starving frames of my brothers and sister, Monsieur."

"And Marius."

She ducks her head, her face flushing. "How do you know?"

"My friends, they call you his shadow." She can hear his smile in his voice, and she looks up, wanting to catch the rare moment. His eyes looks wistful, far off, and she notes that she has never seen him quite like this before.

"That is embarrassing, non?" She smiles slightly.

"No, there are worse things. I am told it natural, human, to feel such a way about someone."

"You are told? Are you not natural or human yourself, Monsieur?" She laughs, and cannot remember the last time she has done so.

"Some people would say that I'm not," he smiles wryly.

"And what would you say?"

"I would say I prioritise differently to most. I choose not to take part in matters of the heart."

"Matters of the heart are not a choice, Monsieur. They tend to catch you by surprise."

Enjolras shrugs.

"So what you said tonight was completely invented? You are good with words, Monsieur Enjolras."

"It has been said. I apologise for any difficulty it causes between you and Pontmercy."

Éponine glances down at her bare feet. "Never fear. I doubt we shall ever see each other again, anyway." Her companion made a sound of agreement. "You still have not told me what it is I am missing."

Enjolras is silent for a moment, seeming to consider his words, concern marring his brow once more. "You cannot tell me you do not see the injustice in our political system, Éponine?" Each year, twenty-three  _children_  are killed, all because seventy-four years ago, it was realised that the system we are controlled by is completely unjust! People die in our streets of starvation and disease every day and nothing is done by the government in the Capitol. The only way to scrape through life is by risking your life further through the purchase of tesserae, and that's never enough. Our education is poor and we have nowhere to advance in life. We can become miners and shopkeepers and that is our absolute limit. Meanwhile in lower districts, children are trained to kill from a young age. Being a murderer before you're legally an adult is considered an  _honour_ , and you can honestly tell me you haven't noticed all this?"

"Well of course I've  _noticed_ it, Monsieur, but I don't see what can be done about it! Life is shit, and then you die. That's how it's always been, and that's how it always will be. At least this way I will not have to endure it much longer."

"You have rights, Éponine! Human rights to life, to a certain  _quality_ of life! You don't have to live like this."

"It is a bit late now. Plus, who are you to change things? You're just a boy, you're barely eighteen."

Enjolras's jaw tightens. "I cannot be alone in thinking this. There must be others who realize this- this  _inégalité_. Being here is my chance. Winning would be my opportunity to get people to realize, to call them to arms and fight for what we deserve!"

Éponine laughs, high and loud. "Your mind escapes you, Enjolras. But alas, at least you have something to fight for."

* * *

The time is drawing closer. She sits in the holding chamber, palms pressing into her eyes until she sees stars and flashes of light against her eyelids, trying to block out the faces of Gavroche, Azelma, Marius that flash through her mind.  _It is too late now for goodbyes._  Shakily, she gets to her feet and smiles softly at her stylist, who doesn't respond. His face is stony, and she knows that he is not wanting to form any kind of a tribute that will likely be dead within the next twelve hours.

* * *

The gong rings out and she's running, along the edge of the circle of metal plates. She collides with someone running from the Cornucopia, a bag on their back that they have snagged from the edge of the supplies. The boy looks up at her, fear in his eyes, before scrambling to his feet and running on, disappearing into the woods. Éponine quickly tucks away the knife she had slipped from the back of his back.  _You may have given me a four,_ she thinks,  _but I've got more in me than that, you'll see. I have some fight left._

* * *

The careers come thundering past her, and Éponine let out the breath she had been holding. Footsteps in woodland were no different from footsteps on stairs, both leading to an inevitable beating, except they these were easier to escape from. Éponine had learnt long ago how to slip through shadows, unseen and unheard.

When Enjolras's voice finds her in the dark, leading the careers after her, she doesn't know what to feel.

* * *

Fire reigns down from the sky, and she laughs darkly at the irony.  _Now you will truly be the boy on fire, Enjolras. Is this the attention you were wanting?_

A fireball narrowly grazes her shoulder just as she plunges into the river. The burn calls up echoes in her mind of the time her father brought down a burning hot poker on her back, and it only pushes her on.

* * *

She slips past the snoring careers and steals enough food to last her the next few days. Before coming to the Capitol, it would have lasted over a week, but she has too soon become accustomed to full meals; she needs to keep her strength up. She's no longer sure what it is that keeps her fighting, but when she shuts her eyes to cold, quick sleep, she sees green eyes smiling at her, crinkled by laughter, and soft brown freckles.  _Je t'aime, 'Ponine._

* * *

The next time she crosses paths with the careers, Enjolras is not with them, and she barely escapes with her life. She presses her hand to the wound across her stomach, gasping as she stumbles through the undergrowth. She is not so quiet now. She slips and finds herself falling, barely suppressing a yelp of pain and shock. She lies, deep and dark in the hollow she has tripped into, biting back her harsh breaths that threaten to give her away. The careers run on, and she allows herself to slip into unconsciousness.

* * *

She is roused by a voice booming over the arena. Through her foggy mind, she tries to understand what is being said. A rule change. Both tributes from the same district can be victors so long as they are the only two left standing. Hazily, she attempts to recall who is left. The two from District 2, two from 5, and another from 11. And Enjolras. However she doesn't know how long she has been asleep for, and she could have missed another cannon.

Her skin feels hot, though the cave is cool, and the slash across her front burns. She can barely lift her head and she knows infection is spreading fast. She fears that soon there will be just six tributes left.  _You will have to go on without me, Monsieur_ , she thinks morosely.

* * *

"Éponine?  _Éponine!"_ His voice calls overhead, and part of her wishes he would let her die in peace. However she finds her voice anyway, and it is rough from dehydration and fever.

"I am here, Monsieur, but you had better let me die." She hears him stop somewhere above the cave. His face appears at the well-concealed opening, and she smiles weakly at him.

"You're alive!"

"Not for long, I'm afraid," she mutters, feeling consciousness swiftly slipping away from her once more.

"What have they done to you?" he murmurs, kneeling beside her and moving her arm from her chest.

"Leave, Monsieur. I am of no use to you."

"Many things that are broken are worth fixing." She knows it is not just her that he speaks of. Enjolras's expression is worried as he examines her wound.

"I am dying, non?"

He looks her in the eye and his head shakes almost imperceptibly. "Not on my watch, Mademoiselle."

"You must stop calling me that," she coughs, "I am no lady."

He hushes her gently as he pulls her up into his arms, and her breath catches in her throat as pain shoots through her middle.

"It is of no use, Monsieur." He does not response.

She is laid to rest by the stream, and she notices how Enjolras averts his eyes as he pushes up her tattered shirt past her chest to reveal the deep gash that runs from her right shoulder to her left hip. He moves to sit behind her, leaning her against his chest as he does his best to clean the wound, and she tries to hold back the whimpers that escape her lips. His heart beats steadily behind her, lulling her in and out of consciousness as the cold water trickles down her front.

In the back of her mind, she wonders why he is behaving this way, before remembering his words at the interview.  _It's all for the cameras, Éponine._

* * *

He tells her that the boy from 5 is dead. Six of them remain, but her infection is only getting worse. Enjolras tells her she has blood poisoning. Once more she tells him to leave her, but he simply turns his back on her requests.

When fever ravages her body at night, making her hot and cold and delirious, he holds her to his side, arms gentle but firm, and when  _Marius_  threatens to fall from her lips, he kisses the name away, hand tightening around her in warning.

* * *

A feast. Something that each District sorely needs at the Cornucopia. Enjolras looks at her, and she knows what will be waiting for them will be to heal her.

"You cannot go."

"I must," he says quietly.

Her mind is fever riddled as she clasps his hand. "Why, Marc? Why do you stay for me?"

A strange expression crosses his face at her use of his given name. His hand brushes over her forehead, and he leans down, his lips by her ear. "Because you are my Patria. I fight for you." And then his lips are on hers and her mind is blank save for  _forgive me Marius. It means nothing._

* * *

He returns at dusk, the left side of his face caked in blood. He is silent as he pulls a needle out of the small orange bag in his hand, and she barely registers as he carefully finds a vein, and injects the contents of the syringe into her arm. He then leaves, tossing the bag to the floor, and returning several minutes later, his hair pushed out of the way and his face wet. Éponine notices a red gash near his hair line.

"Thank you."

He only nods.

* * *

He tells her later that the girl from 2 is dead, killed by the boy from 11 at the feast. Her infection cured, they cautiously emerge from their dark refuge, knowing that the end of the Games cannot be far off.

They try to search for food, but all they find are berries that Enjolras swiftly identifies as Nightlock, a highly poisonous fruit. Éponine wonders when and why he found the time to learn such things. Minutes later, the cannon goes off, and they stumble back the way they came to find the girl from 5, pale in stark comparison to the black juice around her lips. Éponine thinks she has made the same mistake she almost did, but Enjolras is not so sure.

* * *

The muttations are nightmarish in their size and appearance. Their howls echo across the arena, sending shivers down Éponine's spine, and she stumbles towards the Cornucopia, Enjolras ahead of her.  _The boy from District 11 is dead._  The only thing lying between her and her siblings, her Marius, is the tribute from District 2, and a pack of hounds straight out of the depths of hell. Somehow, home has never seemed so far off. Enjolras pulls her onto the metal structure that gleams in the moonlight. District 2 is waiting, and as soon as she is up, he throws himself at Enjolras, knocking them both down. Enjolras's fists do nothing, and as after punch after punch is rained upon him in return, he appears to be losing consciousness swiftly. The mutts bark and whine beneath them, and Éponine does the first thing she can think of. She launches herself onto 2's back, the knife she had stolen from the boy at the start of the games in her hand and before any of them have registered what is happen, hooks her arm around the front of the career and drags the blade swiftly across the boy's throat.

The boy gasps, gags, and Enjolras shoves him off himself, his face splattered with the blood of the career, and his cheek oozing from where Éponine caught him with her knife. She helps him to his feet and they stand, panting, resting heavily on each other.

" _Greetings final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rulebook has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour."_

Enjolras swears, and she thinks that this is the first time she has seen him lose him composure. Silently, she holds out the bloodstained blade to him. He looks from the knife to her, and shakes his head.

"Marc." He shakes his head again. "Come on, do it! You are the one with something worth fighting for."

He reaches into his jacket pocket, and her eyes follow. He draws out a handful of the Nightlock berries. She hadn't even realized he had taken any with him. Curiously, she looks at him as he catches her hand and brings it to his lips, before turning it over and pouring a few of the black fruits into it. She understands.

"Together?"

He nods. "Together. My Patria." His eyes flash.  _There must be more to this._

"One." Is he really willing to do this? "Two." Surely they will guess his plan. "Three."

" _Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Éponine Thénardier and Marc Enjolras! I give you – the tributes of District 12!"_

* * *

Enjolras tells her on the train that President Javert is not happy. There are many in the Capitol that do not believe their love story, and if they are to survive, they are going to have to convince him.  _How can we do this? A marble man, and a girl whose heart is owned by another._

* * *

The train pulls into the station at District Twelve, and though her hand is held tightly in Enjolras', her eyes eagerly seek out Marius. She is desperate to talk to him, to explain to him this thing with Enjolras.  _It's all false, I swear to you_.

She finds him and she feels as though she has taken a cannonball to the chest. He's there, smiling up at me and his friend, but his arms are wrapped tightly around a girl with blonde hair that shines in the sunlight, her hands clutched in his shirt, and she is smiling too, but at Marius, and there is love in her eyes.


	2. Catching Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Éponine sings in this is Dance Me to the End of Love (specifically the version by the Civil Wars). Obviously not a song she would technically be familiar with in the THG!verse, but I wanted to use it anyway. It's a beautiful song, and I really recommend you check it out.

Not for the first time, Éponine thinks that she would prefer to be back in the arena than here. Every time the thought flits into her mind, it is accompanied by the sound of the scorning laughter she guarantees Enjolras would emit were she to ever tell him that.

She hasn't seen him in weeks, though, and District 12 feels like a living hell. For starters, her parents' glee at finally being considered, in their view, "upstanding members of society" meant that her traumas from the Games were quickly disregarded. Gavroche refused to move into the victory village, though Éponine insisted on giving him food parcels, endlessly telling him to steer clear of the Peacekeepers. She had returned to find Azelma had run to the arms of Montparnasse, and refused to listen to her when she tried to warn her off him.

"I'm not you, Éponine!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not  _weak_! I can stand up for myself!"

Worst of all was Marius. Upon her returned he had quickly regaled the story of how he met the angelic blonde, whom Éponine already knew to be called Cosette. Years ago, when Éponine was small and her family had more money, owning a small inn on the outskirts of the district, Cosette had been left in the care of the Thénardiers by her mother, who was very ill. Her mother passed away and Cosette was treated very cruelly by Éponine's parents, and by Éponine herself, who was too young to know any better than to copy her parents' behavior. One day, though, the mayor of the district, Mayor Fauchelevent, came to them and insisted that he adopt Cosette. Éponine had barely seen the girl since.

Here she was now, however, often seen attached to Marius' arm as they paraded happily through the middle of the town. Éponine wanted to hate her, with her shiny blonde hair and big blue eyes, her pearly white smile, but the truth was that Cosette was a lovely girl, and treated Éponine no differently for how she had been treated in the past, or because she was now a victor of the Hunger Games.

Éponine instead resorted to hating herself.

Of  _course_ she had mistaken Marius' words. How could he love her, after all? She was not smiley and beautiful and kind like Cosette. She was skinny and shabby and coarse, even now that she owned a shower and a whole new wardrobe of clothes, and a mattress that was not flea-ridden.

The past weeks have been some of the loneliest of Éponine's entire life. Marius is always with Cosette, Azelma with Montparnasse, and she has not seen so much as a glimpse of Enjolras since they were first moved into their new houses in the Victor's Village. She wonders if he is continuing his plots to overthrow the Capitol.  _How can you be thinking of such things when right now, when we should be focusing on convincing the Capitol to keep us alive?_

* * *

She sees him as she walks back into the village, having been trading at the Hob. He offers her a curt nod, as if this was not the first time she had seen him in three months. Together they push their way into Grantaire's house, carefully stepping over discarded bottles of liquor. Enjolras walks straight to the tap in the kitchen, filling up a glass with water and moving over to where an unconscious Grantaire is slumped over the dining table.

"Wake up, Grantaire!" he calls, before depositing the contents of the glass over the snoring man's head. He rouses with a splutter, pushing his sopping black hair out of his eyes and glaring up at Marc.

"You really don't like me, do you?" Éponine tries to hold back a giggle as one of Enjolras' eyebrows twitches in will covered amusement.

"Not one bit. Now get up, it's tour day. The cameras will be here in half an hour."

Grantaire groans, and there is a loud  _thunk_  as his head hits the surface of the table once more.

* * *

She is reminded once more of how good an actor Enjolras is when she catches sight of him from across the street, cameras trained on them. His smile is beatific, and she runs to him, kissing him for a long, drawn out moment before burying herself against his chest. He ducks his head, pressing his lips to her ear in what looks like a caress, words hidden by her hair.

"Javert came to visit me. Things in the districts are worse than I presumed."

She tries to hide her fear as she looks into his eyes. They gaze lovingly at her, but behind the expression she can see his concern, his fire.

* * *

She watches from her compartment as Grantaire staggers off the train at a fuel stop, Enjolras in tow. They exchange hushed words, and Grantaire appears to be explaining something to Enjolras as if he were a child. From where she stands at her window, she can see Enjolras' eyes widen in the dark at something their mentor says, before he settles back into his usual defiant stance and nods sharply. The window slightly ajar, she is just able to catch his words before he marches back aboard the train: "I understand what I must do. For Patria."

* * *

"We should be friends," she says, sitting down beside him on the grass by the train.

He looks around. "Why?"

She shrugs. "I don't know about you, but I'd rather not spend the rest of my life attending the Games as a mentor with someone I'm not even friends with."

Enjolras raises and eyebrow, but says nothing. Then, "Okay then."

She beams at him, and he wonders if he's getting in too deep. Pretending to be in love is one thing, but actually being friends?

"What's your favourite colour?" she asks him suddenly.

"Red."

"The colour of  _desire?_ " she leers at him, laughing when he glares at her.

"A world about to dawn," he murmurs after a moment.

There is silence, before he asks her the question in return.

"Green," she replies without thinking, and a pair of eyes flash through her mind, sinking a dagger further into her chest. If Enjolras guesses the connection, he says nothing.

"I hear you're a talented musician, Monsieur."

Enjolras nods slowly, a certain sharpness in his expression. "My father taught me to play the violin and piano from a young age. I consider it to be a frivolous activity, however."  _Of course he would._ "Still, it works for the audience. Enhances my 'romantic hero' persona," he remarks sardonically.

"Perhaps you could show me?" He lookes at her for a moment, his head tilted to one side, before standing and offering his hand to her, pulling her to her feet. Their hands remain loosely intertwined as they make their way back onto the train, to the carriage where Enjolras' piano is kept. He sits down at it and allows his fingers to skim over the keys experimentally. He pauses.

"What kind of thing do you want me to play?"

"Something happy," she answers, smiling at him.

The music flows from beneath his fingertips, and for a moment it's all Éponine can do not to stare in wonder as his hands dance over the ivory. The song is soft and lilting, and she finds her eyes drifting shut as the melody seems to flow down her limbs, calling her to join in with the music. She sways gently at first, back and forth in time with the music. Soon she allows her feet to carry her across the floor, lifted and carried by the tune. Long ago, when her parents had still owned the inn, and a battered record player sat in the corner of the parlor, she and her sister would put on music and dance together, laughing and playing in that way that only carefree young children can do. The Games weren't a threat and they went to bed each night with their stomachs full. Now, with District 12 rushing away behind her, and the terrors that wake her at night chased away by the light of the day, she finds that it s easier to feel almost happy once more.

She realises suddenly that Enjolras has stopped playing, and her eyes fly open, landing on him. He is looking at her with an expression that is entirely unreadable, and she's unable to help the blush that darkened her cheeks.

"You play excellently, Monsieur. You are as eloquent a musician as you are an orator. It is not a skill you should be ashamed of. Music has stirred the hearts of many for years. Perhaps you are more relatable this way."

* * *

The tour is harder than she ever thought it would be. She has to look into the faces of the deceased tributes' families, tributes who were stronger, braver and had more to lose than she, and know in her heart that out of all of them, she had the least right to live.

One night he rouses her from a dream that leaves her gasping, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead. He asks her if she dreams of the arena, and she nods, not wanting to say that her night terrors existed long before the Games. She has been fighting for her own survival a lot longer than that, and violence has been an unwelcome member of her family for many years now.

He stays with her that night, when she grasps his hand and pulls him down beside her, delirium still tugging at her brain, enough to imagine that his breath against her neck is someone else's, his hand in hers…

* * *

He suggests the public marriage proposal to her once they reach the Capitol.

"We're going to have to keep appearing at these things, Éponine. The victory tours, mentoring at the Games. To protect our families, our friends, we have to keep the façade up. I'm sorry, so sorry for dragging you into this, Éponine, I truly am."

She nods numbly.  _Marius is lost to you anyway, Éponine. You will never love again, so the least you can do is look out for those you love. Do that much for them._ "I need a minute, Monsieur." She disappears into her room, and Grantaire and Enjolras exchange looks of regret.

* * *

The words pouring off his tongue and the expression in his eyes is almost enough to convince her that what he's saying is real, but even fanciful expressions of endearment and affection are not enough to smother the fire in his eyes.

Following the proposal, she climbs into bed and weeps, letting go of the last shreds of hope for her love for Marius.

* * *

The night on the train back to District 12, they sit up together in the empty lounge carriage.

"You were unlucky, though, to have your name pulled out on your last year," she says absent-mindedly, plucking at the upholstery of the sofa with bitten-down fingernails. "At least I can put my odds down to tesserae."

He looks up at her. "I bought tesserae too, Mademoiselle."

This is a shock. "Why? Your family is one of the richest in the district!"

"My family doesn't know. No one does. Except you, now."

"But why? How many? Why?" She asks again, confusion marring her features.

"Six, originally. My three sisters, myself and my parents." He pauses for a moment, eyes fixed on hers before continuing. "I gave the rations I received away to those who needed them - in secret, of course. I had them delivered to those I had seen to be most in need."

She looks at him steadily, trying to hold back the wonder she feels at the boy before her. It is one thing to speak on injustice and revolution, another to act on it. She discovered a newfound respect for him growing within her.

"That is truly generous, Monsieur. Are you really so willing to risk your life to help others, people you do not know?"

He looks her in the eye, and the sincerity with which he speaks sends shivers down her spine. "I would throw my life away in an instant if I knew that by doing so I would be improving life for somebody else. My life means nothing, otherwise."

* * *

Despite the tentative friendship they had formed on the tour, Enjolras was swift to disappear again upon their return to District 12. She often sees him disappearing into Grantaire's house. The two seemed spend an extraordinary amount of time together considering Grantaire though Enjolras to be idealistic and childish, and Grantaire's perpetual drinking and cynicism irked the younger boy.

Without anything else to occupy her time, besides avoiding her parents, Éponine often found her thoughts drifting to conversations she had had with Marc during those nights on the train.

" _You called me Patria, in the arena. What does that mean?"_

_He ponders her for a long moment, and his steady gaze makes Éponine shift uncomfortably._

" _It's Latin. It means Fatherland. Panem."_

_She doesn't ask how he knows Latin; she's not surprised, to be honest._

" _Do you think it will work?" he asks, his voice soft and his eyes searching._

" _Will what work?"_

" _A rebellion."_

" _I think fancy words are not enough to change the world, Monsieur. It may make some people more aware, those who are willing to listen, but there are those with more to concern themselves with. For those to whom each day is a struggle to live, the will of some bourgeois boy is nothing to them. You give them no reason to fight."_

_If he is offended by her words, he does not show it. They sit in silence for a long moment._

" _That is why you are important." His voice is wind through fallen leaves. "You are_ them _, and you can show them that there is something worth standing up and fighting for."_

_Éponine doesn't respond. She does not know how to feel about being seen in this way, used as a pawn for some fight she is still not sure she wants to be a part of. Marc is fiddling with something on his jacket, and there is a look of focus on his face as he leans over to her and pins something to her shirt. It's his mockingjay pin._

" _Do you know what mockingjays are, Éponine?"_

" _They're just hybrid songbirds, aren't they?"_

" _They're something the Capitol never intended to exist. They released the jabberjays they had created into the wild, expecting them to die out quickly. Instead, they bred with mockingbirds, and they're a species that flourishes. The Capitol underestimated their will to survive. Like you. To them, you and everyone like you is useless, meaningless, and they don't care for your survival; they are happy to let you die. But against the odds, you keep on living. They never wanted that, but here you are. Just by existing, you are a symbol of something_ more _."_

* * *

They're sitting in his house one day, watching the TV without much interest. His family are out, and it is just Éponine, Enjolras, and a mostly comatose Grantaire. The newscaster on the screen is reporting a shortage of graphite, which is affecting the manufacturing of products in District 3. The report cuts to live footage of a woman standing outside District 13's ruined Justice Building, saying how the graphite mines in the district are still far too toxic to approach. The feature ends, and Éponine looks around, bored, only to find that Enjolras is sat straight upright, a queer expression on his face.

"What's wrong?"

Her voice seems to jerk him out of his thoughts, and he seems to be about to speak before his expression flattens.

"Nothing, I was just thinking."

She nods, unconvinced. Whatever it was, it was important, and not something that he feels he can recount here, where anybody could be listening in.

* * *

A month or so after their return to District 12, Éponine's styling team arrive with her potential wedding dresses. Members of the public back in the Capitol are meant to vote on their favourite, which means she has to model all the designs first.

The dresses are all beautiful, and some dark part of herself reminds her that she would never be in this position were it not for the Games. It's a horrible thought, and one that prompts her to consider the fact that even now, when she is alive and healthier than she has ever been, everything around her is fake – her marriage, her happy family life - and yet is the best she could ever hope to achieve.

* * *

As each day passes, the shadows beneath Enjolras' eyes darken, and the look of determination in his eyes grows ever stronger. She thinks to ask him of the news, what's changing in the districts, what is he planning, but she can think of no reason why he would care to disclose such information to her. Part of her thinks she doesn't want to know, either.

* * *

Enjolras had left the room when the shots of Éponine in the various wedding dresses had begun to be shown, but on hearing Caesar's mentioning the third Quarter Quell, he reappears, standing still and silent in the doorway, his eyes fixed in the TV screen.

Presiden Javert recounts what happened in the previous two Quarter Quells, before pulling out a card and reading: "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

For a heartbeat, there is silence. Enjolras makes a sound in the back of his throat, one hand caught in his hair, pushing it out of his wide, fearful eyes as he sinks down the doorframe to the floor. Grantaire is ashen faced, and Éponine stares at her hands, curled in her lap, before looking up at the two men she is slowly becoming to consider her companions.

She smiles sadly at them. "Ah, Messieurs, it appears I am not destined to live, after all."

* * *

She steps into his house later that night and hears them arguing. Silently, in a way that only she knows how to be, she hangs back and listens.

"You're more use out here, Enjolras! If you want this ridiculous plan to work, you have to be somewhere where you're useful, not  _dead!_ "

Marc's voice is soft and steady in comparison to Grantaire's raised tones. "I need to be in there, Alec."

"Because she's your  _Patria?_  Marc, I'm sorry, she's lovely and all, but it's a miracle she made it out of the arena in the first place, and there's no way in  _hell_  they'll let you both out again! Stay here and fight for your real 'Patria', not this weird embodiment of her."

"We'll find a way, Grantaire. We'll work this out. But I  _need_ to be in that arena."

There is a long silence, then, "I hope you're right, Enjolras. For all our sake's."

When Grantaire passes her on his way out, he says nothing, but the look he gives her speaks louder than words.

* * *

Enjolras decides training is in order. He pours the remainders of Grantaire's alcohol supply down the drain, which nearly results in their mentor giving him a black eye. He's contacted Effie Trinket to get her to send them the tapes of every one of the previous games, that he will no doubt study endlessly to try and get inside the heads of the Gamemakers and previous tributes as best as he can.

They soon dive into daily routines of exercises, and Enjolras begins teaching Éponine how to fence. She doesn't see how it will be particularly useful in the arena, but right now it's all the weapons training she has available to her, and she's hardly saying no to that.

Training reveals a side to Enjolras that she has never seen before. In the beginning, he fights the way he speaks, controlled and calculating, each move designed to make a certain parry, land a certain blow. He is precise and deadly.

However, as their lessons progress, Éponine begins to predict his movements, her natural stealth and agility assisting her combat skills greatly. Their fights become longer and their blows fall with more strength, and Enjolras begins to struggle to hold the advantage. His hair plasters to his head with sweat, and his brow creases with concentration. Quietly, Éponine revels in watching the marble crack, even if it is only briefly.

* * *

The reaping is over quickly, and they are allowed no time to say goodbye to their loved ones. As the train sweeps them away, Éponine wonders if Marius would have come to wish her farewell. She thinks perhaps not.

* * *

Enjolras studies the other tributes with meticulous care, and Éponine isn't quite sure what to do with herself. Her nightmares are back in full force, and her dreams are visited by mutts with the face of her father and Montparnasse, chasing her through the dark alleyways of District 12.

Afraid to sleep one night, she stays up with Enjolras and watches the video from Grantaire's turn in the Games, fifteen years previously. He looks on intently as Grantaire discovers the force field at the edge of the arena. Éponine has to bury her head in her hands as Grantaire stumbles to the edge of the cliff, arm clasped around his middle, but just as he collapses to the ground, the axe thrown at his head sailing over the cliff edge, Enjolras tugs her hands away from her face. She watches in awe and horror as the weapon reappears, flying straight back at the girl who threw it, burying itself in her skull. When Enjolras looks at her, there is victory in his eyes, and she is afraid.

* * *

Striking barely begins to cover how Enjolras looks in his outfit for the parade. The black jumpsuit that covers him from neck to foot accentuates his broad shoulders and narrow hips, and the regal tilt of his chin accompanies the twisted black crown atop his golden curls. The effect of embers glitters over his body, breathing like coals do, and next to him she feels horrendously inadequate. She is not a girl of fire, but he is a phoenix.

Lyon Courfeyrac joins them by their chariot, and were Éponine raised differently, she would have looked away from his tanned skin, revealed by what one could barely call a costume. He glances Éponine up and down slowly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. She almost jumps when she feels Enjolras' arm curl around her waist.

"Courfeyrac," her supposed fiancé says curtly. A look of annoyance flashes over the older man's face as he glances at Enjolras, but it is quickly dispelled.

"Ah, Marc Enjolras, the one and only."

Enjolras smiles at him, sweet as a razor, and she wonders once more whether he realizes the effect he can have on people.

* * *

Her score rises from a four to an eight this year. It's good enough for her. Having seen the improvement in Enjolras' skills with a sword, he is given a ten, and there are a reasonable number of requests for allies coming through Grantaire.

* * *

She persuades him to spend the day with her on the roof of the building, blankets strewn around them, and a sumptuous selection of picnic foods. His reluctance stems from the feeling that he could be spending his last few days of relative freedom doing something useful, but she tells him that just for one day, he should think of himself. They lounge in the roof garden in the late summer sun, and he finds himself slowly unwinding. It's easy to do so, he thinks, with her around. Her rough voice is like water rushing over pebbles as she chatters to herself, playing with a chain of flowers she has created. He watches her idly; intrigued by her ability to be so carefree when stood on the precipice of such horror once more.

They've never spoken about her family or childhood, but Enjolras guesses that violence and fear are something of second nature to Éponine, things she feels are such a normal part of life for her now that she doesn't bother to question it when yet more is handed to her. She had once offhandedly remarked to him that she thought she must have done something horrible in a past life, like murdering a family member, to have such misfortune land open her. His blood had boiled with righteous anger at her words, but his lips had remained sealed.

In time, she stands up, and he squints up at her, the rays of the setting sun shining like a halo behind her, picking up the red in her hair, like the russet of her sister's locks.

"Do you dance, Monsieur?" she asks, smiling down at him.

"No, I can't say I do."

"Another 'frivolous activity', in your opinion?" she laughs. He shrugs in response. "It is not hard, and if there ever was a time for dancing, it would be now." She holds her hand out to him. He takes it without thinking, and gets to his feet.

"We have no music."

"That is of no matter."

She places her hands round the back of his neck, and he tentatively rests his on her hips, glancing away from her awkwardly. She begins to sway them, humming softly. After a moment or two, the tune becomes words. Her voice is coarse, but tuneful, and the song and their motions lull his thoughts, slow him in a way that he has not felt in many years. She sings under her breath, and the moment feels private, like he's listening in to something personal, that he shouldn't be privy to. The fading light of sunset glows around them, casting elongated shadows of her eyelashes across her cheeks as her eyes flutter shut, her lips forming the words of the song like caresses.

" _Dance me to your beauty, with a burning violin. Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in. Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove, and dance me to the end of love, and dance me to the end of love."_

Something seems to crack within him, and the weight that eternally rests upon his shoulders suddenly feels as though it has tripled.  _Every life, every unfortunate soul; why should I be the one to carry them?_ His arms tighten around her waist, and his head drops onto her shoulder. Her lips are by his ear, words brushing the shell of it, and his arms gooseflesh as a hand winds its way into his hair, holding him to her the way he holds her.

" _Oh let me see your beauty, when the witnesses are gone. Oh let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon. Oh show me slowly what I only know the limits of; oh dance me to the end of love, oh dance me to the end of love."_

* * *

Flames and smoke engulf her as she turns, to gasps and cries from the audience, and when she stops, the beautiful wedding dress is gone. The dress she wears now is coal black, and covered in tiny feathers. She lifts her arms, revealing white patches on the gauzy sleeves. She glances at Marc, his eyes filled with fire, and she knows. She is his mockingjay.

* * *

It takes all her ability to not react with shock when he announces her pregnancy to Caesar. She knows she has gone pale, and a hand has drifted to rest over her stomach of its own volition.  _Pregnant_. Images of a smiling girl with brown curly locks, a blue eyed boy with a deep frown, out of place on his youthful face. She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the fantasies, her eyes stinging.  _You're being ridiculous_. She lets the tears fall, overwhelmed by the reaction of the audience, the thoughts his proclamation has produced.  _At least tears look good for the cameras._

* * *

The fire is gone when they return to their apartment and the rest of their team turn in for the night. Enjolras stands in the middle of the common room, his face pale, and when her hand brushes his, she finds it is cold.

"Marc," she sighs, raising her hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter shut, and she is sure she is not imagining the way he leans into her touch.

"What if it doesn't work?" he breathes.

"Then it doesn't work." When he eyes open again and fix on hers, they are hollow. "Greater men than you have not done half of what you have. There is no dishonour in failing, Enjolras, so long as you have tried."

"And if it makes things worse? If we fail and thousands are punished?"

Her hand brushes up, burying in his hair. "The weight of the world is not yours to carry, Marc."

When she presses her lips to his, she expects him not to respond. For a moment he is stone-still, but then he makes a sound in the back of his through, and his hands grasp her waist, as if afraid that she is about to slip through his fingers.

After a moment, she pulls away, her fingers carding through his hair, before slipping down his arm to catch his hand. Eyes remaining fixed to his, she steps backwards, leading him towards her room. Willingly, he follows.

* * *

When Grantaire opens the door in the morning to wake her up, he is surprised by the deep sense of sadness that settles within him at the sight of the two of them on the bed, Enjolras' arm lying across Éponine's waist, his nose pressed into her hair.

 _You're a fool, boy_ , he thinks,  _waiting this long to find her._

* * *

He rouses as she slips from between the sheets, gliding towards the bathroom, her dark hair swaying at her waist.

"Épona."

She turns, and his mind searches for the right words, only to find there are none. She understands, and smiles in the way that only she can do, in the face of everything that is wrong with the world.

* * *

She stands on her metal plate, surrounded by the blue lapping waves, her heart hammering in her chest as she watches the action at the cornucopia. Courfeyrac and Enjolras exchange brief words, the foil in his hand poised over Courfeyrac's heart, before they move apart to defend themselves against the other tributes that have reached the centre of the circle. Enjolras sword clips the back of Gloss' leg, and the older man plunges into the water, making his hasty escape. The immediate danger dispensed with, Enjolras catches sight of her, stranded on the edge, unable to swim, but before he can do anything, Courfeyrac dives off the central plate, swimming swiftly towards her. A quick glance at Enjolras assures her that the other tribute is not a threat to her.

On reaching her plate, he grins up at her through the rivulets of salt water running down his face. "Come on darling, let's get you out of harm's way. Can't have you hanging about in your condition," he says with a wink. Éponine accepts his outstretched hand warily.

* * *

The sharp zapping sound occurs just at the moment where Éponine cries out in warning. Enjolras' body is flung backwards through the air, away from the force field, landing heavily in the damp undergrowth. Éponine is by his side in an instant, his name on her lips, her hand hovering over his mouth, pressed to his chest in search of breath, a pulse. She finds nothing.

" _Enjolras!_ " Her voice is unsteady now, rational thought chased off in an instant, eyes wide with panic. "Marc? Non,  _non_."

Before she can register, Courfeyrac is pushing her aside, pinching Enjolras' nostrils closed, lips descending on his. It takes Éponine a moment to understand what is happening, Marc's chest rising and falling with the air that Courfeyrac appears to be blowing into his lungs. After a moment he pulls away, moving to start compressions over Enjolras' heart. Minutes pass, Courfeyrac continuing his ministrations, until Enjolras' prone form twitches. Éponine's heart restarts at the same moment that his does.

Enjolras eyes flicker open, surveying the scene around him, before his eyes land on Éponine. "I found the force field."

* * *

After the toxic fog and the monkeys, she is not one to say no to a little comic relief when Courfeyrac suggests it to her. They are awake long before Enjolras, and after a quick out loud request to Grantaire for something to sooth their itching skin following the acid clouds from the night before, they receive a horrible thick, dark coloured ointment, which Courfeyrac quickly declares makes Éponine look as though she is decomposing. When she suggests rousing Enjolras, however, Courfeyrac requests that they wake him up together.

Marc's yelp of surprise at waking up to their grey-green faces inches from his is worth it. Éponine laughs so hard her stomach aches, and it is made all the better for the look of distain plastered on Enjolras' face at their antics.

_This is what life is. It is finding the good moments amongst all the horror and sadness. Is that really so bad?_

* * *

It is not long after that Bahorelle shows up, an inert Bossuet being dragged along behind her, and a circling, deranged looking Feuilly in tow. Courfeyrac's expression on seeing the District 7 woman is the exact opposite to Enjolras', who merely scowls at her appearance.

But apparently, Bahorelle has brought Bossuet and Feuilly for Enjolras' sake, because they were the ones he had wished to ally himself with. Unfortunately, that means allying with Bahorelle, too. The tan woman smiled wryly up at Enjolras, sensing his distaste.

"Well, this is gonna be fun."

* * *

"Get up,  _get up!_ We have to move!" The huddle shifts, groans of discomfort emitted in protest of stiff neck from sleeping on the beach. Enjolras is standing in the middle of the group, eyes wide and head turning as he surveys the arena. "It's a clock,  _the arena's a clock._ "

* * *

They're at the Cornucopia, Éponine drawing out the map of the arena in the sand when it happens. The song Feuilly had been humming to herself stops, and at once they all twist round, Courfeyrac's trident finding Gloss' chest as he lets the prone form of Feuilly slip to the ground, neck gushing. Bahorelle's axe meets Cashmere's temple, and Enjolras knocks aside a spear thrown by Brutus only to receive Enobaria's knife in his thigh. They leap forward in pursuit of the District 2 tributes, when the circle of land that holds the Cornucopia begins to spin, the sudden motion knocking them off their feet.

" _Fuck._ Now we don't know which sector's which."

* * *

The screams start and she's running, tearing through the trees in search of, "Gavroche,  _Gavroche!"_

Behind her, she hears Enjolras, running despite the wound in his leg. "Éponine, Éponine  _stop! It's not her!_ " Éponine looks around wildly ignoring his words.

"Non, it's supposed to be me," she whines, " _It's always supposed to be me."_ Whimpering, her hands clamped over her ears, she sinks to the ground as Azelma's cries start up. " _Papa, please. 'Parnasse…"_

Enjolras grabs her and hauls her up, over his shoulder, wincing at the pressure on his injury.

He sets her down on the beach, where she proceeds to shake and sob. He crouches before her, gently pulling her hands from her face, which is wet with tears.

"Épona," he whispers, fingers brushing away the dampness over her cheeks. "Éponine look at me. It wasn't them, nothing has happened to them. I promise you. Please, believe me."

Slowly, her eyes lift to meet his, and she nods slightly. He presses a kiss to her forehead, hand catching hers. "Good. We need to go."

* * *

Bossuet explains his plan to them: death by electrocution to anyone on the beach when the lightning strikes the big tree at twelve o'clock. Using the wire he's been clutching since they first arrived in the arena, the wire that he had gotten stabbed trying to retrieve, they will conduct the current from the lightning to the sea in the centre of the arena, and thus the beach too, as it will still be wet from the tidal wave that strikes at ten.

"I say we try it," says Enjolras, and no one disputes him.

* * *

It's time. Beetee coils the wire around the tree several times, before sending Enjolras and Bahorelle off to lay the wire down to the water. Éponine is on guard up the tall three in the one to two o'clock sector.

Everything seems to go wrong at once. The wire springs back, coiling around Enjolras' wrists, and he glances up in panic at Bahorelle just something heavy meets his temple, sending him sprawling. Bahorelle is on his chest.

" _Stay down, will you?_ " She hisses, before a searing pain shoots up his arm, and he feels hot liquid running down his arm, pooling in his palm. Weakly, his head pounding, he tries to throw her off to no avail. His thoughts come thickly, like treacle.  _Alliance is off. Courfeyrac and Bahorelle must have had a deal… Éponine!_

The weight on his chest is gone, and faintly he hears the approach of Enobaria and Brutus. "He's as good as dead."

* * *

The force field. The only thing between the arena and the rest of the world. Enjolras' eyes flit dazedly between the wire wrapped around the knife hilt, lying beside Bossuet's inert form, and the hazy shimmer of the force field's weak point, the chink in its armour.

" _Marc!"_ Behind him, he can hear Éponine screaming his name. He lifts the knife, eyes fixed on the thrumming square, and throws, just as the lightning strikes the tree. A flash of white runs up the wire, and for just a moment, the dome bursts into a dazzling blue light.  _Éponine._

* * *

 

 


End file.
